


Fermata Means as Long as you Need, Shortarse

by Tawabids



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Music, Nightmares, post season two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tawabids/pseuds/Tawabids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock was around, the sound of the violin kept bad dreams away.</p>
<p>Now that he's gone, Lestrade and a couple of pints are willing to try bit of strumming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fermata Means as Long as you Need, Shortarse

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt at Sherlock BBC Kink community](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9100.html?thread=42448012#t42448012). It was originally set between seasons, but now that we're post _Reichenbach Fall_ I've rewritten it to (hopefully) be compliant with season two. You can probably see the stitches though.

The smell of lager was a miasma around John as Lestrade tumbled through the door after him. He could swear John had only had two or three - or maybe it was four - but he was also sure they were both using the wall for support and John's face was beautiful when he was laughing, it was old and young and Lestrade's deepest instincts told him he wanted to see it again and again for the rest of his life. 

He leaned forward and pecked John on the tip of his nose. John put his hand on Lestrade's chest, "Now, now Detective-Inspector," he wasn't quite slurring his words, but his tone was mock-serious. "I believe I agreed to a couple of drinks. And here you have invited yourself inside."

"I have, haven't I, shortarse?" Lestrade grinned, and damn it, they should have stopped at two because he was beginning to feel sick and the last thing he wanted was to vomit on John's shoes. That would be real romantic, that would. He felt the world swoop around him like a shaking snow-globe, but here in the center of it was John and him.

They heard a door behind them close, and they both hurried to stand against the wall and pretend to be having very not-at-all-flirty conversation. Mrs. Hudson popped her head out, her eyes widening as she spotted Lestrade. "Oh, hello boys," she said in a loud whisper, as if there were anyone else in the house to wake. "John, I just wanted to let you know that man from Cardiff called, he says no news, sorry."

"Of course," John cleared his throat, and that wonderful smile was gone like it had never existed. Now John was just old, his neck pulled into his jersey and his eyes half-closed. "Thanks Mrs Hudson."

"Do you want to come in for a cup of tea, love?"

"No, no I should get to bed," John glanced at Lestrade, and his eyes were open graves. "I'm pretty tired."

Lestrade wanted to say something, but what was he supposed to say? He unclosed his throat enough for, “See you, mate,” and John raised his hand in acknowledgement without a word. Lestrade and the landlady watched John trudge up the stairs to his cold flat. 

“What about you, dear?” Mrs Hudson said, her eyes sympathetic with their shared concern. “I’ll call you a taxi. Come have a cuppa.”

Lestrade suddenly felt like nothing in the world would be better. He followed the woman into a lounge like the inside of a tea-cosy, welcoming and smelling of everyone’s grandmother. Bookshelves and cabinets crowded the room, and a dusty guitar case was squashed between a grandfather clock and the wall. Lestrade dropped into a threadbare armchair, clutching his head. 

“When you said no news, you meant about this guy John's convinced exists... Moriarty's man?” he asked quietly. 

Mrs Hudson nodded, standing in the door to the kitchen. “He won’t give up, poor dear. It’s eating him up.” 

She shuffled off to put the kettle on. Lestrade felt a bit more sober all of a sudden. He had tried to find excuses to see John since Sherlock’s death, but it was hard for the doctor to get his mind off the plots and conspiracies he believed had fabricated an untraceable lie around the disgraced detective. He always spoke like his mind was half a continent away and there were shadows under his eyes and a drag in his feet. He’d said he wasn’t sleeping well. “Sherlock used to play at night,” he’d said distantly. “It’s too quiet now.”

Lestrade looked down at his thumbs and wondered what he was playing at. He could never replace Sherlock Holmes, not in any shape or form, certainly not in John’s life. Mrs Hudson came back with two servings in delicate white china and Lestrade took his gratefully. The tea was delicious and the heat swam through him at once.

She gently settled herself into another chair and sipped at her tea. “You’re doing him good,” she said brightly, waving her hand at him. “Coming round here, getting him out of the house.”

“Not good enough,” Lestrade said grimly. 

Mrs Hudson nodded with a tender look in her eyes. “It’s not easy,” she said vaguely.

Before he had a chance to ask her what she meant, there came a faint cry through the ceiling. Lestrade looked up sharply, half raising to his feet, but Mrs Hudson insisted he sit down.

“I hear him thrashing about like that every night,” she sighed as there came another pained whimper. “Nightmares, you know. He stopped having them when Sherlock was here.”

Listening to John moan in his sleep, Lestrade felt as if someone had reached into him and was crushing his windpipe. As he glanced around for a distraction his gaze fell on the guitar case. He asked the landlady if it was empty and she shook her head. “My husband used to play.”

“Do you mind if I borrow it? Not to take it out of the house.”

“I suppose not,” Mrs Hudson frowned. “What are you--?”

“Cancel the taxi, Mrs Hudson,” Letrade drained his tea and clambered to his feet. He hauled the guitar case out, opened it up and ran his hand over the wood of the old Martin acoustic inside. He lifted it by the neck and perched on the edge of the armchair to tune it. It was years since he’d played, but his fingers slid confidently along the frets. The guitar was hideously out of tune, but he twisted the pegs until the pitch sweetened. The wood was well-aged and a mellow hum resonated from its maw. Satisfied, Lestrade saluted Mrs Hudson before hurrying out.

He almost chickened out as he stood on the landing outside John’s dark kitchen. This was technically breaking and entering – well, maybe not breaking - but he was a police officer and if John took this the wrong way it was not going to look good. But he heard John cry out again and his resolve solidified. He hurried up to John’s room and fumbled for the door handle. Despite tripping over his own feet (okay, he wasn’t completely sobered up) and almost dropping the guitar, he managed to get through and close the door in relative silence. 

A faint glow through the thin curtains lit his way to John’s bed. The sleeping man lay on his front, one arm curled under his pillow and the other twisted in the sheets behind his back. His face was twisted as if in pain. Lestrade couldn’t believe he was doing this. John kept a gun, didn’t he? Even if he didn’t blow Lestrade’s head off, he’d probably never speak to him again. 

He sat himself cross-legged on the carpet beside John’s bed. He positioned the guitar in his lap. “Fermata is one of my favourite words, John,” he breathed to himself, so low he could only hear his voice as a reverberation through his skull. “Because when you hold it, you hold on as long as you need to.”

John gave a soft, muffled cry. Lestrade’s fingers felt for the strings in the dark and he began to play.


End file.
